they light up the sky for you
by The Star Room
Summary: It's the evening of the 2014 Stark Expo, and Bucky promised he'd be here. Steve knows the man's memory rises and falls like the tide, but surely ... surely he'll keep his promise. He can't have forgotten everything that's happened the last few months. If he's forgotten, Steve won't know where to turn.


The man in black woke up and found the sky on fire.

It didn't look as dangerous as it sounded. The air was crisp and smooth, a perfect cloudless night despite the smoke drifting around in tendrils. Bucky wrinkled his nose, leaning out over his balcony to get a better look at the world above. Bright bursts of color popped like balloons against the backdrop of stars, floating down to earth and disappearing, as if they had better places to go, other things to see.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking at. Yeah, okay, he'd seen them before; he knew they were decorations, not bombs. People tossed them into the sky because they were pretty to look at, not because they wanted to burn down villages and evacuate towns. But something about the exploding fires felt wildly familiar, felt _personal_.

Damn it. His memory. He groaned and leaned his forehead against the cold cast-iron railing. He knew the fireworks were important, there was something significant, something more than kids cheering with sparklers in the street...

Trying to remember was like trying to forget. It was like staring at a brick wall and willing it to crumble. It was impossible, without a heavy-duty sledgehammer and some serious upper body strength.

Another loud _boom_ pulled him out of his thoughts, and Bucky glanced upwards, resting his elbows on the railing and watching the skies above Queens dance. There were families in the middle of the streets, laughing and playing loud music, still barbecuing even though it was almost 9 o'clock. Everything smelled sweet and smoky and sour, like hot sauce and steak rub and sulphur. He wasn't sure what to make of it all - he hadn't witnessed a lot of parties during the Winter Soldier days. He'd celebrated his victories privately, maybe with a bottle of champagne and a night spent with the Widow. But this was something different, something strictly American, something on a totally different level of human nature.

He liked it, actually. In an odd, retrospective sort of way, he liked it.

Still, something was tugging at his mind, and it made him uneasy. He had managed to do pretty well the last few weeks - every time he woke up, he knew his name and where he was, and every morning he'd pour his bowl of Lucky Charms (damn it, the kid's cereal was _good_) and little bits and pieces would come back to him. He remembered a lot now - or, at least, a lot more than he did before. He knew his name was James Buchanan Barnes, he was in the 107th, he was brainwashed, and he grew up in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Brooklyn. That's why he stayed in New York. He always stayed close to Brooklyn, because Brooklyn tasted of home and Dr. Wechell told him sensory cues were the key to his memories. They were in there somewhere, shoved down with lock and key. He just had to coax them out.

Or, y'know, pound them with a sledgehammer and serious amount of upper body strength.

_Skuewww!_ A loud, high-pitched firework startled him - it sounded too much like a missile launch. He watched it shoot up into the sky and then fade, slowly, until it was nothing more than a tiny spark and then - black. Just the darkness of night. He grimaced and walked back into his apartment, sliding the glass door closed behind him.

His tiny living quarters were poorly lit and badly outdated; the sink was broken and half of the lamp bulbs were burnt out, but he didn't mind. He wasn't a big fan of fluorescent lighting these days, anyway. It had enough space for his things, and the 1960's decor somehow managed to be homey. He especially enjoyed the Mickey Mouse alarm clock he'd bought for cheap at a discount gas station; he liked the little cartoon character. A trooper, that guy was.

He dropped his keys in an armchair and made his way into the kitchen, still irritable and uneasy. He opened the fridge and pulled out the leftover Chinese his next-door neighbor Sharon had ordered for him ("You ever eat anything, bud? Or is if all gym workouts and angst for you?"). The noodles were cold, but using the microwave made him nervous - the last time he'd put a metal bowl in there and Sharon had had to call the fire department. Bucky was gone long before the firefighters arrived; he wouldn't be caught dead at a potential crime scene.

He sat on top of the (fake) granite counter and slurped at his noodles, watching the night sky through his window. The fireworks were beautiful, really. Red, white, blue, green, purple ... it was like they'd invented new colors just for the display. He'd always loved a good light show. As a young man, he'd read the papers every day for more news about Howard Stark's latest electric technology. Even back in the 40s, the things the man had managed to do with light and lasers, it was amazing really-

Bucky stopped abruptly, the fork slipping from his fingers. His whole back tensed and, suddenly, he couldn't hear the fireworks anymore.

Howard Stark. The 40s.

The World Expo. Howard Stark had been at the World Expo. He remembered.

He and - he and _Steve_ - they'd gone to the World Expo. Howard Stark was there, he had a flying car, he had -

_Steve_.

Bucky's eyes widened. Oh, God. What was today? The 4th of July, of course, he'd circled it in big red pen on his calendar. He was supposed to remember something, the World Expo, no, the -

Oh. _Of course_.

The memories hit him with an almost overwhelming force as he launched himself off the countertop, the bowl of noodles already a thing of the past. So many forgotten names and colors and days, days he shouldn't have forgotten, moments and emotions that should have stayed seared in his heart, because how could someone forget something like _that?_ This was what Steve had told him about, what Steve had warned him about, "your memories are going to fluctuate, Bucky, sometimes you're not going to remember what you did yesterday and sometimes you'll remember everything you did 30

years ago. It's gonna be different every day. Until we get this fixed. And we'll get this fixed, I promise."

Oh, God. What time was it? Was he late already?

He grabbed his baseball cap and pulled it over his still-too-long mop of hair, throwing on a light jacket and his favorite pair of tennis shoes. He ran out into the hallway, deliberately left the door unlocked behind him, and found Sharon sitting with her friends on the apartment steps.

"Heeey, James, wassup?" She waved at him, smiling. "Happy fourth! God bless America, right? Care to join us for a beer or two?"

An unexpectedly natural charm came into his voice, and he smiled back at her. "Thanks for the invite, but maybe later, toots. You can help me out another way, though."

"How's that?" She asked, eyeing him as she took a swig of her Budweiser.

"Give me the number of the fastest cab driver in Queens. I'm gonna need him."

* * *

The world hadn't changed so much, Steve thought to himself, as he strolled down the lit-up sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. Sure, everything was a little bigger and a little brighter, and maybe Stark's fancy technology sent his head spinning, but ... fireworks still looked the same. Still as beautiful as they were 70 years ago.

The 2014 Stark Expo was about the loudest, most colorful event Steve had ever dreamed of, let alone visited. It was Coney Island times one thousand, all laughing kids and flashing lights and loud music, plus every electric doodad and contraption Steve hadn't the slightest idea how to name. Tony had invited him as a specially honored guest, thinking it'd be a fun way for the Captain to spend his birthday and 4th of July. And, sure, yeah, it was thrilling ... but Steve had other things on his mind.

"Whaddya think, Cap?"

He turned to see Sam and Natasha approaching from the concessions stand. The ex-pilot was decked out for the holiday - denim pants, red Henley, a woven sunhat with an American flag stuck in the corner, even a temporary tattoo of a firework on his cheek. Natasha looked a little more natural - just a white hoodie and jean shorts. She never ceased to surprise him with her outfit choices; she could go from lethal to elegant to casual in the span of an hour.

Sam was happily crunching into a fresh churro, while Natasha had settled for a couple cans of Coke - she handed Steve one as they fell into stride beside him.

"It's pretty impressive, I gotta admit," Steve replied as he looked around him, sighing at the multi-colored buildings and tall glass domes. "A little flashy for my taste, but I suppose Stark has a habit for outdoing himself."

"Damn right," Sam replied, grinning and jabbing a thumb at the building titled _Biotech Complex_. "You been in there yet? They've got a dinosaur. Not a real one, obviously, just a hologram, but ... certainly _looks_ like the real thing."

"It's just a gimmick for the kids," Natasha replied, her eyes on the sky. "Stark wouldn't know the first thing about caring for a dinosaur."

"I could do it," Sam joked. "I've seen Jurassic Park."

Natasha shot him a look, but she was smiling. In a good mood. They were all in a good mood. Even an Ex-KGB could appreciate a good 'ole American fireworks display.

It was nearing 10 o'clock, and they were headed towards the Stark Industries Pavilion, where Tony was about to give his annual speech and show. Supposedly, he would get into his Iron Man suit and fly amongst the fireworks, raining sparklers down like confetti at a concert. It sounded exactly like something Stark would do. The man was nothing if not exhibitory.

Steve wasn't bothered by it, though. He had had a good day - a great one, really, much better than he'd expected. The younger kids - Billy, Katie, Teddy, America - had all made him a cake with vanilla frosting, and even Thor had managed to escape Asgard for the morning and wish him a happy 96th. All day on the news they'd played homages to Captain America, his duties in the war and the Battle of New York ... he'd called and begged them to stop running the tape, it was really too much, it was his pleasure to serve his country, but they'd insisted. He was a national hero, and he deserved a hero's celebration.

It was everything he'd ever wanted as a kid. He'd finally proved himself.

And yet ...

He frowned and turned towards the cityscape, eyes wandering to the little line of buildings that signaled the beginning of Queens. It was about a thirty-minute drive from here, not a stretch by any means, not if one was driving fast.

Steve took a deep breath, and tried to not think about his amnesiac best friend, whose recovery rose and fell like the tide.

Still, it was almost unbearable, not knowing where Bucky was, what he was doing, or if he even remembered what had happened over the last few months. Steve had chased him halfway across the country, had spent an entire week facing death threats and shouting matches, had brought him home at the first glimmer of recognition, had spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars trying to bring back the man he once knew as his fiercest protector and dearest friend. And they were making progress, praise God, they really were. He was Bucky again, not the Winter Soldier, he remembered his name and where he was from, he looked at Steve with that old kindness, that old tease, that old mystery that, for so many years, Steve had chalked up to nothing more than Brooklyn charm.

But so much had happened so quickly. Bucky had awoken in the middle of the night, shivering like the thermometer had dropped to subzero. He had sat on the coffee table and cut his hair with a pair of kitchen scissors, his mechanical arm making noises that sounded painful. He'd called out for Steve and Steve had torn back his bed sheets, afraid of the worst, only to find Bucky sitting in the living room sifting through old pictures and whispering to himself, quietly but surely, "Oh God, Steve. Oh, God. Oh, good God. I loved you. Oh, God, I l_oved_ you."

And how was Steve supposed to react to that? How was he supposed to answer 80 years of pent-up emotions, of denial, of refusing to believe that he and Bucky could ever be more than friends? He would have chased Peggy to the corners of the earth, it was true, and Natasha was easy on the eyes, but, all along, Bucky...

They'd spent the night together. It had happened and Steve had never felt less ashamed in his entire life. He'd asked Bucky over and over, if he was sure this was alright, if he wanted to wait, if he felt okay, but Bucky took his face into his hands and kissed him, kissed him the way Steve had imagined a hundred times in a hundred lives. And Steve had laughed, in that shy, relieved way he had as a kid, and they slept in one another's tangled sheets and _Bucky was back_. Bucky was home.

Then, just like that, the man was gone again. The guilt had gotten to him. The realization that he was the catalyst of a hundred political meltdowns, that he had killed dozens - painfully, with little mercy and expert skill. It was too much for him to handle with Steve. He had never been able to appear vulnerable around Steve before, and he wasn't able to now. He had to figure this out for himself.

Atonement. Steve understood, he really did. He respected Bucky's decision. But he knew his mind wasn't where it needed to be; the man was still fragile.

Could Bucky have forgotten all over again? Could he really have lost everything that had happened between them? For the first time in his life, Steve thought maybe he'd be able to repair something. Now he wasn't so sure.

Bucky had promised to be here tonight. The 2014 Stark Expo. The 4th of July. Steve's birthday. He had said he "wouldn't miss it for the world." Of course Steve had taken the promise with a grain of salt, as he did with a lot of Bucky's drawls, but that didn't mean he wasn't still waiting, hoping.

He'd waited this long. He could wait some more, right?

"Hey, Rogers. Show's starting." Natasha nudged his side and Steve followed her gaze to the pavilion, where ACDC was already booming from the loudspeakers. And there was Stark, dressed in what appeared to be a red, white, and blue-striped tuxedo. The ladies were practically falling over themselves. Jeez, the man really was too much like his father.

"Someone should tie him to a flagpole," Sam said, smirking.

Then the show started, and it was a good one, as Steve had known it would be. Every kind of firework imaginable. Big ones that seemed to span every corner of the horizon. Little ones that sounded like fire alarms. Ones that appeared to fizzle out before they were ready, and then surprised the audience by exploding right before their eyes moments later. And there was Stark, in the middle of it all, zipping between each spectacle, almost certainly giggling like a fool in his suit.

"Idiot," Nat muttered, and Steve couldn't help but grin.

It ended as quickly as it had began. The kids went racing back to the other attractions, chasing one another to get in line for the flying cars and superpower simulators. Parents drifted back to the bars and dining tables, sharing hot dogs and funnel cakes. Teenagers on dates held hands in the darker corners, while college students gathered at the Intelligence Center to compare their IQs to Tony Stark's. Everywhere there were American flags and sparklers and the smell of celebration. Of freedom.

"Heading back to the Tower?" Steve asked Natasha, who had managed to nag a bag of M&Ms when the last firework had turned out to be an exploding piñata of candy. She tossed a green one into her mouth and shook her head.

"Meeting Clint at the border of Jersey. He got himself into trouble. Again."

"On the 4th of July?"

"Something about Barney and illegal fireworks and angel food cake."

"Really, that's all?"

Natasha smiled at him fondly, and pulled him into a hug. "Night, Cap. Happy birthday. Clint left you a present when you get back home."

"Thank you, Natasha. Good luck with the angel food cake."

She threw him a salute as she turned away and disappeared into the crowd. That left Sam, who looked preoccupied by a couple teenage girls with firecrackers - "Oh my gosh, you look just like that Falcon guy! Are you related to him?"

And then there was Tony, who was busy shaking hands and wooing crowds, but he looked up for a moment and met Steve's gaze, giving him a respectful nod.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good show," Steve said quietly, and nodded back at him in return.

And then there were none.

Steve turned back to the sidewalk, figuring he'd have one last look at the History of Technology Center before he drove his bike home. There were some old typewriters he wanted to get a better glance at, they looked almost like -

"Crazy, the fireworks look just like they did in the 40s."

Steve froze. It took him a second to register that someone had spoken at all. He turned to find the source of the voice, and

"They're a little brighter, maybe, and I'm pretty sure we didn't have exploding piñatas back then, but ..."

Steve interrupted him. "_Bucky?_"

"Who the hell is - I'm kidding. Sorry, that wasn't funny." The man in black stepped out from under the shadow of the pavilion overhang. "The psychologists say self-deprecating humor can help you come to terms with yourself, so I thought I'd give it a go. Didn't work, obviously." He smiled a little sheepishly.

It was weird, seeing the man who was so recently a cold-hearted assassin _smile_, especially with that guilty look in his eye. He looked so normal, it was almost hard to believe he was real. Tennis shoes, blue jeans, a baseball cap covering his hair - still too long at the ears - and a face that knew who he was.

"You made it," was all Steve could say at first.

"Yeah."

"You've been gone for weeks."

"Woke up in Jersey sometime mid-June. Didn't know who I was. Gradually moved back to Queens, found my apartment. I'm lucky it wasn't robbed."

Steve was almost angry. "I told you it was a bad -"

Bucky frowned. "Don't, Steve. Not tonight. You aren't going to be able to change my mind. If I still have any idea who I am tomorrow morning, I'm following through on this."

For a moment, Steve considered challenging him. It was so stupid, such a stupid idea for a mental patient to go running about the country trying to fix himself, but ... Steve understood. Somehow, he did. And he knew arguing wouldn't do any good. Bucky was a stubborn mule; serum or no serum.

"But you're here tonight," Steve said finally.

"I'm here tonight."

"You're alright. You aren't hurt."

"No," Bucky replied. "So far, no one's tried to attack or arrest me. I figure it's only a matter of time." He took a deep breath, lifting his gaze to the sky. "When they do come, I just hope my ... instincts ... don't kick in."

Steve saw Bucky's jaw muscles clench, and his back tense - he was getting hit with another flashback. Not a bad one; not like some of his earlier ones, ones that had made him fall to his knees, gritting his teeth and hurling his breakfast onto the floor. But a disquieting one, nonetheless. He was still in brainwash withdrawal, and the repercussions might be here to stay. Steve didn't know. The doctors didn't know. No one had any idea.

"Bucky, you know you didn't have to come tonight if you were struggling," Steve said. "I just wanted a phone call, a letter, heck, Stark's even given me an email address -"

"You know, they light up the sky like this," Bucky interrupted, his eyes still looking above, still watching the remaining fireworks. "They do it every single year."

Steve nodded. "They're quite something."

"You know who they do it for?"

"The Founding Fathers, I'd imagine. For the country. The Declaration of Independence. All of it."

"I don't think so." Bucky shook his head, and looked at Steve. His expression was hard, but not without emotion. "They light up the sky every 4th of July for _you_, punk. You and everything you stand for. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. Bucky was moving towards him.

"Every single year, I've watched fireworks. I've seen them every year, and every year they meant nothing to me. But tonight, I saw them, and I couldn't shake the feeling ... They were important. They reminded me of a thousand years ago, when you were a scrawny good-for-nothing and I was a headstrong..."

"The World Expo," Steve finished, putting the pieces together. "Howard Stark and the flying car. You remembered."

Bucky nodded. "I remembered _you_."

"And a few months ago? You remember...?"

A wry smile tugged at Bucky's lips. "If you're referring to a night spent naked in a national hero's bed, then yeah. I remember."

Steve felt the heat rise in his cheeks and he swallowed, trying not to laugh. "Buck, if you're not feeling right, I don't want you to feel obligated to - I mean, just because it's my birthday - I want you to take care of yourself first. Then we'll catch up. We'll go to dinner in this Chinese place I found -"

"Steve." Bucky looked old, much older, and immensely tired. "I want to go home."

Slowly, Steve nodded.

"Okay. Let's go home."

* * *

It was not until early morning, after they'd spent an hour talking and an hour kissing and an hour making love to the sound of bursting fireworks that they finally discovered Clint's birthday gift for Steve. It was sitting on the kitchen counter in a woven basket shaped like a nest, concealed in the shadows.

A gift-wrapped bottle of 1918 Chateau Haut-Brionn red wine, complete with corkscrew and a tray of cheese. With it was a little letter in chicken scratch handwriting:

"_Have fun, you crazy cats. Happy birthday Steve._

_From,_

_Hawkguy._"

Bucky saw the bottle first, and when he showed it to Steve, the Captain burst out laughing. He was having the best night he'd had in weeks.

"Clint does know you can't get drunk, right?" Bucky asked, perplexed.

"I think that's kinda the point." Steve poured a glass for Bucky, who gingerly took it with his mechanic hand. "Clint's a fan of irony. And stupid humor."

"Oh."

"You okay with wine?" Steve asked. "It's not gonna, uh, trigger old memories or anything?"

Bucky glanced at him, bemused. "You really think they gave the Winter Soldier 96-year-old bottles of wine?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Yeah. They give him a 96-year-old super soldier to chase after instead."

Steve grinned, and took a seat next to his friend on the couch. Bucky sat with his legs crossed, the way he used to when they were kids. The Mickey Mouse clock on the wall chimed a steady 3 am.

"It may sound like I have a death wish, but I'm glad they gave you those orders," Steve said. "I would've spent the rest of my life thinking you were dead."

"And I would've spent the rest of my life ... being someone else," Bucky said, trying to make light of everything that had happened. But Steve saw his hand tighten around the wine glass; a thin crack appeared along the rim. Bucky took a deep, shaky breath, and said, "Steve, I don't want you to think everything can go back to the way it was, because it can't. I can't go on living like this, I'll die if I don't do something to fix what -"

Steve's lips ceased his words, and for the rest of the night, there was no more talk of the Winter Soldier.

There was just fireworks, red wine, and two old men who had a whole lot of catching up to do.

Honestly, Steve couldn't have asked for a better birthday.


End file.
